Insidious
by PashN
Summary: It is when she is searching for the missing Templar recruits in Darktown that I first meet her...


It is when she is searching for the missing Templar recruits in Darktown that I first meet her—a young woman, eyes the palest of grey and chestnut hair cut short. She isn't wearing a robe, but I already know she's a mage. 'Hawke' the dwarf in the group calls her, and that is how I learn her name. It fits her, I decide; it fits her composed attitude, vigilance, and the efficient way in which she eliminates her targets, like a bird of prey. A subtle aura of power surrounds her, bespeaking of her potential to develop into someone greater. But she doesn't seem to want greatness right now. All she appears to care about is anonymity, the chance to slip by the Templars without getting caught. It is a mystery why _she_ is helping them find their recruits at all.

When she re-emerges from a trapdoor leading to the surface of Darktown, she is covered in blood—not her own; she is barely bruised. After checking the area and making sure that it is safe, she gestures to her companions to come out. They do not look any better either, but none of them seem to be bothered by their dishevelled condition. It is as if they are used to fighting dangerous entities all the time.

On their way to the nearest exit out of Darktown, they discuss their next step. The dark-skinned woman bringing up the rear makes a crude comment about blood magic, the dwarf laughs at it, but the male elf accompanying them remains indifferent, finding the pattern of the cobblestones more entertaining than the conversation taking place. Then he raises his head, and I hear him ask Hawke if it would be wise of her to enter the Gallows, considering her status as an apostate. She shrugs and says that after all these years, she's learned how to blend in and be cautious.

'Not cautious enough,' I think, but I do not voice that thought.

I simply watch.

ooo

I see her go into Arthuris' private dock in the dead of night with her dwarf companion, the pirate woman, and the new Dalish mage. I am familiar with the place. Olivia, the Templar's daughter, is residing there; however, Hawke doesn't seem to be aware of that particular detail. She isn't here to retrieve her, even though she talked to Thrask earlier today.

I am not surprised when the sound of a battle comes from the building some seconds after Hawke steps inside. It is a habit of hers to stir up trouble, and get into trouble for other people. I do not understand why she is being this selfless. Kirkwall is not going to change if there are a hundred less thugs living in it—no matter what she thinks, no matter what the Qunari believe, and no matter how long the simpletons in the Chantry preach. Chaos always persists, as does corruption. To think otherwise is naive and foolish.

My musing is interrupted when the door to the building opens and out comes Hawke, a sullen expression on her face. Her friends appear to be perfectly healthy, so whatever has soured her mood has to be related to her quest. She passes by me, too absorbed in her thoughts to notice my presence. And I smile faintly at that—at her ignorance.

Sheathing her daggers, the pirate nonchalantly suggests that maybe it would be better if they don't give 'him' the letter. Hawke is quiet for a few heartbeats, but in the end says that he'll know it anyway. As they are walking away, I turn and enter the private dock. The place is in total disarray, but that is to be expected after Hawke's rather vehement confrontation with the slavers. I discover nothing of interest on the first floor and move to the second deck, pausing in the doorway leading to the main quarters to regard the scene: there, among the mangled bodies of slavers and a pool of blood, are the remains of an abomination.

Olivia is nowhere to be found.

ooo

Her brother is grumbling again, because she chose to accept Hubert's offer. I look at the sky. It's dark now, and they haven't talked to Hubert since early morning, at least ten hours ago. I shift my gaze back to Hawke junior, wondering why her sister hasn't attempted to petrify him. But then again, perhaps twelve seconds of silence is not worth the angry rant that is sure to follow the moment he's back to normal.

Their mostly one-sided conversation is cut short when they are ambushed by a group of Sharps. They were evidently waiting for the two siblings to separate from the others at the local tavern before making a move. It is a tactic they didn't use the last three times their members were slaughtered. Those were chance encounters. This one, however, is an obvious payback.

The Hawkes hold their ground for the first couple of minutes, and even manage to take down several of the highwaymen. It is when enemy reinforcements arrive that things start to look grievous. I expected this to happen. After all, it's only the two of them, and there are still more than a dozen mercenaries alive.

Her brother is fatigued, and she isn't feeling any better. One of the lieutenants slashes at her with a sword, leaving a gash on her torso. The pain is enough to make her momentarily lower her guard, and so she isn't ready for the shield bash that accompanies the previous attack soon afterwards. The force of it throws her onto the ground, her staff skidding out of reach. I'm nearby. I can interfere. But I don't.

When she raises her head to look at the approaching lieutenant and his minions, there's a murderous glint in her eyes. There is a sudden shift in the Veil as she reaches out to draw power from the Fade. A second passes, and then she lifts her hand, tearing the bandits off the ground and then slamming them down. As they are struggling to get back to their feet, groaning, she quickly heals herself and uses what little mana she has left to conjure a cone of ice, freezing her opponents. The positive turn of events makes her brother bolder, and he charges forward, cleaving through the frozen assailants.

Realising that the Hawkes are getting the upper hand, the few remaining Sharps decide to retreat and run for the head of the alley. Just when they reach the intersection, a lightning spell strikes them from behind, killing them on the spot.

It is after the initial surge of adrenaline settles that Carver turns to her, his expression a cross between confusion and awe; although, he is trying his best to not reveal the latter.

"What made you do that?"

He is referring to her telekinetic attack, the one that she couldn't do, not before tonight. A subtle furrow appears on her brow as she tries to recall the moment, what transpired and how it felt. When she speaks, her voice is tinged with a shade of doubt.

"Necessity."

I already knew what her answer would be. I knew it when she was lying on the ground, desperately trying to catch her breath. She isn't one to accept failure, not one to accept defeat. She isn't going to die easily. Most people would think of it as her strength—along with her diplomacy—but I consider it a weakness. How far is she willing to go to keep herself and those around her safe?

_Too far_, I conclude darkly, leaving the two of them.

ooo

Women are going missing. The city guard is trying to keep it quiet, but I know better.

She talked to Ghyslain de Carrac today. I am not sure whether she is investigating the matter because of the coin he offered, or whether she truly cares. After all, she isn't aware that Ninette is in danger. Nobody is.

It is almost sunset by the time she enters the Blooming Rose. The occupants regard her oddly, thinking she's come to kill yet another of the 'service providers'. As I am surveying the environment, I spot her uncle. He tries rather poorly to look inconspicuous, but Hawke recognises him nevertheless. She confronts him, and he stutters that he's in the brothel just for the drinks. 'Right,' she says, giving him one last glare before climbing up the stairs to the upper level. I do not pursue her.

Viveka is busy talking to one of the elves, and I move indifferently to the book lying wide open on the counter to scan the names. _Karen… Karen…_ Ah, there he is. According to the list, he last saw Idunna here. So that was her name…

From the corner of my eye, I see Hawke descending the steps back to the lobby. She doesn't waste a moment before heading for the exit and I go after her. Outside, the sun is no longer visible. Her steps are hasty as she makes her way through the twists and turns of Lowtown alleys. Has she discovered that Ninette is in trouble, or is she trying to catch up with someone else?

She makes a brief stop at the tavern to retrieve her brother, the dwarf and the former pirate, before setting off for the Undercity. From their conversation en route to Darktown, I learn that she is looking for a Templar who is making inquiries about the disappearances. Someone from the Circle must be missing as well. Why else would the Templar order decide to investigate this?

It doesn't take long for the group to find the man – the sound of shouting and the clashing of swords are more than enough to give away his location. After the battle is over, the Templar relays his knowledge regarding the matter to the party, hands Hawke a piece of paper, and then leaves the place. As they start going back to the upper part of the city, her brother suggests that they continue the trail tomorrow morning, but she pays it no heed, determined to solve this mystery.

Lowtown is quiet and empty. There are no Sharps around anymore since Hawke dealt with their leader the previous night. She makes a beeline for the foundry, the others following her close behind. I see her hesitate a bit when they reach the building, her body becoming fully alert and rigid. It is as if she can feel the dark foul aura surrounding the place. The dwarf asks her if something is wrong, but she tells him it's nothing and takes out her staff before stepping into the foundry. I do not go inside.

When they return, she is carrying a bloody sack filled with bones and severed appendages. I don't have to look inside the bag to know of its contents. The smell is more than enough. As the Gallows' docks are closed at this time of night, she has no choice but to take the sack with her back home. Gamlen's reaction after discovering her intent is nothing short of hilarious, and I might have laughed at it, if I were one for humour. I silently watch as he, blocking the doorway, says she has to leave the bag outside, and she replies that it's evidence, it's important, that she has to keep it closeby. When he doesn't relent, she reminds him of their encounter at the Blooming Rose—the underlying blackmail in her statement hanging thick in the air. At that, Gamlen groans and allows her to enter. The door closes seconds later, but I can still hear them arguing about the sack.

I turn my back to the hovel and wander away with no particular destination in mind. The streets are barely lit, the moon hidden behind a shroud of angry clouds. I prefer it this way actually; prefer the darkness.

As I reach the alley leading to the foundry, I stop. I see the silhouette of a man, creeping out of the half-open gate of the building. He halts, and looks straight in my direction. A nearby torch casts a dull yellow light on his face, and as the shadows masking his features fade, the deranged smile on his lips becomes perceivable.

"You're a furtive one, aren't you?" he asks placidly.

"Mind your own business," I reply, my voice hollow.

"I am."

And then he continues down the street and disappears into the night. To take another woman's life, no doubt.

ooo

She is leaving Kirkwall for the Deep Roads, taking only the dwarf, her brother—and to my annoyance—the Grey Warden healer with her. I do not pursue them. It is not worth the trouble. In her absence, I decide to pay a visit to the Dalish clan in Sundermount. After all, I have some… business there.

The half-blood boy Hawke rescued a couple of weeks ago is not doing very well. He is, however, doing a very good job at pretending that everything is okay. Too good a job, in fact; he's always perfectly 'normal'. Only a fool would believe his acts. And as I regard the elves in the settlement from afar, I see a lot of fools—the grandest of them Marethari herself. She is one of those who are willing to do a lot to keep the others safe, even questionable things. I make a mental note of this. It can come in handy in the future.

There is a cave nearby. The elves have not cleared the entrance yet, but that doesn't stop me from finding a way in. Somewhere deep inside, I find one of the tomes: a collection of notes written from the Fell Grimoire. I put the book back down. There is no reason to entice those who are so eagerly trying to claw their way through the Veil; I'll leave that to Hawke. Nevertheless, I doubt she enters this place while the entrance is blocked. I may have to persuade one of the elves to do something about it.

Weeks pass. No one returns from the expedition. I am now certain things have gone wrong down in the Deep Roads. She better not be dead. That would be such a waste.

It is in the morning of a cold winter's day that they finally arrive at Kirkwall—only the dwarf, the healer, and Hawke. No sign of her brother.

I am beginning to suspect that he might be dead, but then the Grey Warden comforts Hawke by saying, "He'll make it". She offers him the faintest of smiles, a word of thanks in a voice coloured with melancholy, then parts from her two companions and starts walking in the direction of her uncle's hovel, her steps reluctant. She tries to prolong the trip by taking the longest path to her destination. I saw the bags full of gold and artefacts that they brought from the Deep Roads, yet here she is, looking disheartened and defeated. What has happened to them underground?

It is minutes later she reaches Gamlen's house. And just outside the door she stops, turning the rusty key between her fingers, gaze fixed ahead at nothing in particular. Her lips tremble, just barely, and then her eyes become glossy as she tries to hold back unshed tears. She lets out a shaky breath, and composes herself before putting the key in the hole and turning it.

Her reserved façade is believable, but I can still see it in her face: the guilt.

ooo

So her brother has contracted the taint; I discovered it less than an hour after I'd left her at Gamlen's hovel. The dwarf, Varric, has a very large mouth. I had to linger at the Hanged Man for only a brief period before he cracked under Isabela's barrage of questions and told the story of their expedition. It involved a lot of cursing and colourful threats directed at no one other than Bartrand.

While Varric is busy referring to his brother as 'that son of a bitch', I exit the tavern and set out to discover Bartrand's current location—more precisely, his precious idol. I have a vague idea of what the artefact is, and it'll be better if it falls into the hands of those more… capable.

Varric is still tearing out his non-existent beard to locate his brother when I find the older dwarf's hideout in Rivain. I cannot blame the storyteller. He doesn't have my resources, so to speak. I can convince someone to collect the object for me, but I do not trust anyone to resist its pull, and I'd rather not go on a chase to find _them_.

It is a long journey to Rivain, even with my particular method of transportation, and it's months before I reach Bartrand's latest shelter. He never stays in one house for more than a couple of weeks, paranoid that someone might eventually find him. _Not that he is wrong_, I think, watching the light in his bedroom go off.

I walk into the manor, slipping by the servants without arousing suspicion, and make my way to the uppermost level where I know Bartrand is at the moment. I can feel the idol, its calling, even from this distance. When I open the door, the dwarf doesn't take notice, busy pacing the room and angrily mumbling a load of tosh to himself. Less than a year and he's already lost his mind. Pathetic, but it isn't like I expected anything more from someone with his capabilities.

"Tethras," I equably call him.

He stops his rant and looks up at me with his haunted eyes. He doesn't make a move when I stride towards him, as if he's paralysed.

I bend down and bring my mouth level with his ear to tell him softly, "You want to get rid of that idol."

He doesn't reply, but I can hear the cogs in his brain turning. And I smile darkly at how susceptible he is to my suggestions.

"Good boy."

Then I straighten and exit the room, leaving him there in his dazed state.

I monitor the activities in the manor during the night, wondering if I need to visit the dwarf again tomorrow and work on his line of thinking. He is already crazy, and just needs a nudge in the right direction. The next morning, I hear the servants talk about packing in preparation for a visit to the City of Chains… It appears Bartrand doesn't require that extra nudge after all.

My task with the dwarf is done for the time being, and I leave the city and start travelling back to the Free Marches, making stops here and there now that I am no longer in a haste. There is so much knowledge hidden in these lands, so many secrets, and yet people are simply meandering in ignorance. One specific ruin in the Green Dales shows much promise, but I decide to check it later, when I am not alone.

When I reach Kirkwall, it has been more than two years since I was last in the city. It doesn't seem to have changed much, except for perhaps the number of poor dwelling in the Lowtown district.

It's not even noon; the Hanged Man is probably empty, so I head to Hightown market to gather the latest news. (The servants there are excellent gossipers.) As I'm passing one of the market stands, I hear two merchants talking to each other about delivering goods to _Messere_ Hawke.

I stop.

Just how high has she climbed the social ladder in my absence?

It turns out that she is now residing in the Amell Estate in Hightown, with only her mother, and the merchant dwarf and his son who accompanied her into the expedition. Gamlen doesn't live with them. He probably couldn't squeeze through the main gate due to his inflated pride and obstinacy. Although, I would not be surprised if I discover that Hawke hasn't invited him to join them at the manor. Not after what he did to her mother's fortune. I do not understand why Gamlen didn't burn the will. It was the most sensible action—destroying the evidence. Then again, being sensible has never been his strength.

My musing is interrupted when the estate's main door opens and none other than Hawke herself steps out of the building, eyes down on the parchment in her hand, a subtle frown creasing her forehead as she concentrates on what's written. Her hair is long now, tied back in a ponytail, with loose strands framing her face. She still has a staff strapped to her back, and is wearing trousers and a jacket. Granted, they are made of fine leather now and not faded material, but they're not what a lady of her status would wear when parading in the streets. She has never been one for noblesse oblige.

She lifts her head to gaze at the courtyard, rolling the parchment and then putting it inside her satchel, before walking ahead. I discreetly follow, watching her bid good-day to people she recognises, and watching them treat her with respect in return—people who looked down at her before and sneered whenever she was near.

I continue to observe her behaviour. She seems less impulsive now, more patient. Her smiles are far and few between—something is taking its toll on her. And as she passes by one of the guards and he informs her that the Viscount is waiting for her, I understand what: she's trying to fix this city, but that's not really possible. Its problems run deep.

She tells the guard that she'll visit the Viscount after taking care of her business in the Chantry. I stand back and regard her walk confidently, with her tell-tale Stone's Breath, inside the very place that harbours those who are the reason she's being called 'an apostate'.

When Hawke exits the building minutes later, the exiled prince of Starkhaven is with her, and judging from their interaction, they know each other relatively well. A new addition to Hawke's band of merry friends? It appears so, I decide, hearing her tell the prince that before heading to Lowtown, they should go to the Keep. The man offers her a smile, and she replies with a charming one of her own.

_More than friends, apparently._

I watch them move away, a shadow passing over my face.

ooo

The Dalish elf is informing Hawke of her Dreamer son's situation, rather loudly. I can hear her, talking about about how Feynriel has gone into a coma, and the only way to save him is by entering the Fade. How interesting…

Hawke tells the elder woman that she has to go somewhere, but will back as soon as possible. When they are leaving the Alienage, Merrill asks Hawke if she could accompany her into the Fade, her big eyes shining with enthusiasm. The latter turns to her and says that she'll consider it, her voice gentle. That seems to satisfy the elf, but I know that Hawke has no intention of dragging the other mage with her to a place beyond the Veil. Wise girl.

An hour later when she returns, only the healer mage is with her. I am disappointed, and I maintain my distance. _He_ never knows when to keep his mouth shut.

They proceed to talk with the Dalish mother, this time in low voices, until Marethari arrives. The whole Alienage stop their activity to bow and show her respect. I wonder if they know she's been delving into ancient blood magic rituals, in hope of finding a way to banish powerful demons. For the greater good, of course. She is above petty temptations.

The corner of my mouth tilts upwards at her folly. Her _pride_.

I pity those who follow her leadership. Although, I highly doubt it would last long.

She enters the house with Hawke and the healer, and naturally, I do not pursue them. I linger by the vhenadahl tree, waiting for their return, curious to see how their little trip to the Fade will turn out. Boring most likely, considering Hawke's prude companion.

It is several minutes later when Anders barges out of the door, an irritated Hawke hotly on his tail.

"What in Andraste's name was going through your head?" she asks just when they're out of the Alienage.

He halts and spins around to pin her under his steely gaze. "_My_ head? You're the one who struck a deal with a demon!"

"I-" She quickly checks their surroundings and continues more quietly: "Keep your voice down! I did no such thing!"

"I was there! I saw you!"

She looks at him with mock disbelief. "Really? I thought you abandoned me five minutes into the Fade."

"You-"

"I _lied_," she interrupts him. "Is it too difficult a concept to grasp? You don't show all your cards to a demon. How did you survive this long by being honest in the Fade?" Her lips twist into a faint sneer. "My mistake, you didn't."

As soon as the words leave her mouth, I can see it—her immediate regret.

The healer seems stunned for a heartbeat, then turns and walks away heavily in the direction of Darktown.

"Anders!" She calls, but he doesn't stop.

Letting out a frustrated breath, she rakes a hand through her hair, then takes a step backwards to lean against the uneven wall of the alleyway, closing her eyes to clear her head.

"Lost your way?" I ask silkily.

That snaps her out of her thoughts and she immediately tenses, the earlier argument forgotten for an instant. She turns to face me, a hand reaching for her staff, no doubt to send a hex in my direction.

But I am already gone.

ooo

She burned the book.

I simply stand, looking down at the ashes of what used to be the Fell Grimoire.

She burned the book.

Its cinderous residue languidly scatters as a cold breeze passes through the chamber.

I am angry—it's not rage; I do no stoop that low. It was fortunate that I wasn't here when the whole commotion took place. I would have had to restrain myself from slapping some sense into her.

I turn my gaze away from the remains—the glaring evidence that she is not ready yet—to survey the room. The corpses of all those who couldn't stand her impetuous action adorn every inch of the floor. I walk to the centre of the chamber where Xebenkeck is lying among the dead. I am somewhat pleased to see the mangled body. It means that my investment in Hawke is not a complete waste.

I search the corpse. Voracity is missing.

So it is fair game to take things from demons, as long as they don't offer it to you pleasantly.

When I step out of the Pit, there is talk of a poisonous gas outbreak in Lowtown, and that 'Serah Hawke' is dealing with the matter—of course, ever the heroine. I suspect that sister from the Chantry is behind this attack. She has been busy enticing zealots against the Qunari in the past few years. It will not be long before her plans backfire spectacularly. Nevertheless, I am not interested in the matter, and make my way unhurriedly to the docks instead.

It is dark by the time I get there. I go straight to the west part of the area, where I know he would be hiding in the shadows. The elf is resting on his side in a bedroll, his head propped up by a hand, eyes fixed on the magical book laid before him.

He doesn't notice my arrival, until I announce it by asking, "Sketch, is it?"

He looks over his shoulder at me, and as recognition hits him, his uninterested expression changes to that of panic.

"Oh, blasted arse of Andraste!" He quickly scrambles for his staff.

"Do not bother," I tell him calmly, regarding his clumsy attempt at obtaining a weapon. "I am here on business."

"Aren't your type always?"

"A different kind of business." And then, in a quieter voice: "You will listen."

The elf picks up on the commanding tone—the threat—and stops fidgeting.

I speak slowly enough for the mage to understand my every word, without missing any details: "You are going to write a letter to Bancroft, say that I am willing to aid him in escaping the hounds on only one condition: he must relay the news of the Solution to those who joined in the shadows."

Unsurprisingly, confusion is apparent in his face.

"Erm… Who is Bancroft?"

"None of your concern," is my equable answer. "Deliver the letter to Mistress Selby, here, in the docks."

"Can't you do it yourself?"

The icy stare that he receives in response is more than enough to make him regret his insolence.

"Forget…I said anything," he mumbles.

I turn my back on him and start walking away from his hiding spot.

"Are we going to… meet again?" I hear him ask, sounding none-too-eager.

I stop. "Not unless you fail."

Then I leave.

The elf sneaks into the Chantry that night, and sleeps in the basement instead of his usual hideout, keeping his staff nearby at all times. The next morning, as I'm passing by the Chanter's board, I hear one of the sisters complain about the missing parchment, ink bottle and quill.

ooo

Her mother is dead—murdered, mutilated. She doesn't talk of it much; doesn't say a thing as they cast her sympathetic glances, whisper comforting things, trying to be consoling. She doesn't raise her head to look at the speakers, not even when it's Sebastian. Perhaps they were not that close after all.

When she's back in her estate, she only briefly talks to Gamlen (because she has to), and listens to only Aveline (because she doesn't have a choice). When the formalities are over, she shuts everyone out of the mansion, remaining polite and keeping up her masquerade of determination. It is when she goes to the balcony on the upper level where she thinks no one can see her, that the mask drops.

It starts with a whimper, one that she tries to strangle before it reaches her lips, but then she gives in, sliding to the ground to shed tears. The sobs only die when her eyes are dry. I consider approaching her; she is alone now, and she's lonely. But in the end, I stay back and watch her fall sleep on the cold stone floor of the balcony, cuddled up like a baby, innocent and tender.

The next morning, the impassive façade is back on her face again, and she continues to avoid having any conversations about her mother. It is as if she's determined to bury the memory forever in the deepest recesses of her mind. Because remembering the image of that woman as an undead is too much to bear.

And then the Viscount has the audacity to call upon her for yet another task, her mother's ashes barely cold. 'These are desperate times,' they say. 'He is desperate,' I think, my gaze lingering on what is visible of the Keep from outside the gates of the Amell Estate.

Dumar is not going to last long in this game of political schemes. And the moment he falls, Meredith will step in to take the leash.

ooo

It is the next night after her mother's funeral that Aveline and Isabela decide to pay the Amell Estate a visit, each trying to win Hawke's favour to aid them in their difficulties. Selfish, the both of them. Aveline wants to drag her along as a figurehead to negotiate with the Arishok about the elven fugitives—right after that mess which happened in the Chantry; Isabela needs help to obtain the 'the Relic'.

The _Relic_.

My mouth twists into a sneer every time the pirate says that word, after all these years, lying to Hawke through her teeth.

This time she makes a slip however, calling it a _book_. And Hawke immediately takes notice. I can tell that suspicion and mistrust are what convince her to ignore Aveline's problem for the moment and agree to accompany Isabela to the meeting location: the foundry.

Of all the places in this despicable city, it has to be there. And of all the people Isabela knows, it has to be Hawke to come to the very building in which her mother was decimated. She acts as though everything is normal. It is when the foundry becomes visible that she balks for a moment, the memories of her last visit resurfacing.

The whole charade regarding 'the Relic' comes crashing down when they run into a group of Qunari, and this is when Isabela decides to tell the truth—_now, _that the whole city is being torn apart because of her little secret.

They get into an argument. It doesn't last long because they don't have any time to waste. When they enter the building, agreeing to discuss the revelation later, I stay outside in the shadows. I watch as the smuggler rushes out, Isabela chasing after him. I watch as she murders the man and loots the tome from him. I watch as she quickly jots down a note, leaves it on the corpse and then flees, thinking she is too clever. But all I see is a coward.

It is minutes later when Hawke exits the foundry, bloody and bruised, the dwarf and the elven slave following her not faring better. She quickly moves to the smuggler's body, her eyes falling on the note. She doesn't have to read the text to know that Isabela has abandoned them, taking with her the only thing which could prevent the imminent conflict with the Qunari—prevent a war.

She lets the paper tumble down to the ground, staring ahead at nothing in particular, ignoring the comments of her companions and the blood trailing down the scar on her arm. There is a schooled expression of indifference on her face, but as she shifts her gaze heavenwards to regard the black smoke rising high into the autumn night, I take a glimpse of what is being shrouded underneath her apathetic aspect: disappointment, and the feeling of being betrayed.

ooo

Champion of Kirkwall.

That's what people have been calling her ever since she dueled the Arishok.

I still cannot understand why she accepted that challenge—that risk. Not because of Isabela, no matter how much Varric likes to spin the tale; not because she returned close to the end of the battle, chin held high, the Tome of Koslun in hand, as if she was the heroine of the act.

I stood back and watched as Hawke spent every ounce of her mana in that combat. She never used a potion, never used the grenade sitting securely in her satchel. 'It would have been a dishonour', she said. And I longed to ask what would have been the honour in dying for people who didn't really care for her.

I remained silent.

There was a reason they called her _basalit-un_. I do not understand the true meaning of that term either.

Word has it that people want to appoint her to be the next viscount. Ever since the war, the majority of townsfolk think she's invincible—a mortal goddess gracing the Free Marches with her presence. Not that Meredith would ever allow a mage be crowned, but that is not much of a problem. She is not going to remain in power for long. It doesn't take someone clever to realise that Kirkwall is going to fall under her leadership, and I am more than clever.

I know of her little secret. I know she talks to herself when she thinks no one is around. She even talked to me once, in her pathetic state of delusion. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to laugh at the irony of it all. The Knight-Commander of Kirkwall… What will the other Templars say when they figure it out?

They will not, however; not until it's too late.

I am aware that some of them are conspiring against her. 'She's mad. She needs to be overthrown,' they whisper to each other whenever Meredith is out of earshot. And the mages are more than happy to take advantage of their discontent, at the centre of them Grace.

She sought me out once in the Gallows courtyard.

"You are going to die, Grace," I said calmly in response to her request for aid.

"Why would you care?"

"I do not."

She sneered and walked past me, to seek someone else. That did not solve the problem of her impending death.

I made sure it would happen regardless.

ooo

It has been a day since Hawke found the first two Awiergan scrolls, half a day since she found all of them. She would have rushed to Darktown to find the lair, if her companions weren't tired from their exertions.

It is an hour past midnight and she is still sitting in the library, going through the books she's borrowed earlier from Merrill, trying to figure out the secret behind the binding magic. Her friends might think she's doing all this hunting solely to protect the city, but I know a part of her actually enjoys it—the thrill of solving a dangerous mystery. There is a reason she's been collecting those Band of Three notes for years.

Perhaps this is her weakness: her thirst to uncover the truth from a plethora of lies. It is not an urge, however, not _yearning_. And that is why the demons have been kept at bay. Even if someone were to mortally wound her, she would be content with facing death. She would struggle to evade it, but only on her own terms, not another's.

It is two hours past midnight and she still hasn't managed to interpret the enigma of the binding scrolls. With a sigh, she stands up and organises the parchments into a neat pile on the table before leaving the library for her bedroom. The topmost paper is her latest journal entry.

_I found the first scroll by accident, lying on the ground just before the Dalish camp, _it reads in her handwriting.

_It gave off a malevolent aura, but then, everything did in Sundermount. It wasn't until we were ambushed by an Arcane Horror and a horde of Shades that I realised there was more to the gibberish written on the parchment. I found the second one lying on the ground, close to where the Arcane Horror had manifested itself. Like the first one, there were no enchantments protecting it, no demons guarding the object. I find it suspicious that anyone would go to the trouble of binding such powerful nefarious creatures, only to scatter the key to their release in the city outskirts, leaving them in plain sight where they could easily be picked up._

_All of the scrolls end with a handprint in red. It's always the little finger that is severed. I don't know why. I spent the whole night trying to understand the significance of it. Does it mean there are eleven more of these scrolls hidden elsewhere?_

_I wish there was someone knowledgeable with whom I could converse about this matter…_

_Anders is unstable. There has always been a sort of rivalry between us, because I don't share his radical views of the mages' freedom. Sometime I think even _he_ wouldn't agree with what he writes in his manifesto, if he weren't… possessed. I _tried_ to do something about it – I tried to save him – but then he had to pull off that trick and send me on a chase to get ingredients for a 'Tevinter potion' that never existed._

_Merrill is actively consorting with demons. It's been tiring really, the effort I put into keeping an eye on her. I've been keeping defensive enchantments on her house, but those do not protect her in the Fade. She even asked me two days ago to accompany her to Sundermount in search of the demon which taught her blood magic. I gave her a positive answer, but I've been delaying our trip. There must be a way to dissuade her._

_That leaves only Orsino to discuss the matter of the scrolls with, and even if Meredith wasn't observing his every action, I wouldn't have approached him. There is something… shifty about him. He told me that he has no idea what the missing Circle mages are doing, but I think he knows more than he's letting on. He always does _something_ every time Meredith decides to search the tower, effectively diverting her attention from her investigation to another problem. I have a feeling the Circle is not as innocent and pure as he preaches. I killed Grace yesterday and she turned into an abomination…_

_I can tell that tonight's sleep is going to be a restless one; the elite denizens of the Fade are more than happy to jump at the chance of using my interest in the Awiergan scrolls in some manner._

_Although, lately, my days have not been peaceful either. There's this presence-_

_I feel like someone is watching me. All the time._

_It has become more palpable since mother died. Maybe it's the loneliness finally catching up with me._

I pick up the quill still wet with black ink and write down at bottom of the page, in cursive handwriting, _'No, it is not.'_

She finds the note the next morning after breakfast, when she returns to the library to continue her research. She is on her feet as soon as the initial shock is over, heading to the parlour.

"Orana!"

The elven servant pauses from her cleaning of the shelf and looks up. "Yes, Mistress?"

"Did someone enter the library last night after I went to the bedroom?"

"No."

Hawke just stands there, staring unseeingly at the girl, the colour of her face paling a shade.

"Is everything alright, Mistress?"

That interrupts her racing thoughts.

"Yes," she replies quietly, turning away and going back to the reading room to burn that journal entry. Just before tossing it into the fireplace, she stops, her gaze remaining fixed on the fire.

Seconds pass before she lets out a shaky breath. Then she crumbles the paper instead of destroying it.

When she leaves the library again a minute later, the crumbled piece of parchment is sitting untouched on her desk, a Glyph of Defiance cast underneath it.

It makes me smirk very faintly.

I knew she couldn't resist a riddle.

ooo

They are heading to the Vimmark Wasteland to confront the Carta dwarves. When they reach the Chasm, I do not follow them further. They might be ignorant to it, but I can sense it, hear it. I have half a mind to warn Hawke not to approach the hideout. It has been seven years; it's been a long wait, and I do not like someone else to squander all my efforts in the name of freedom.

It's in the dead of night when they finally emerge from the Chasm, tired and bruised. He has escaped, but they seem to be unaware. Hawke is suspicious, though. She brings up the subject of 'Larius acting strangely at the end' a few times while speaking to her Grey Warden brother, and questions him if it was possible for a Warden to become possessed.

"Who would want to possess that horribly tainted body?" is her brother's reply.

"A powerful darkspawn which is at verge of dying?" she suggests.

"Darkspawns can't do that. They're not demons."

"Can't do or you don't know?"

"I'm a Warden," he says tersely.

Her cool expression remains unchanged. "You didn't know about Corypheus, and neither did your Commander who sent you to investigate the 'Carta'."

He turns to look at her.

"Now you become suspicious, long after we let the bastard walk free?"

"Can't you track him down?"

"We don't have _phylacteries_."

She keeps his gaze and he finally sighs in defeat.

"I'll inform the Warden-Commander to look into the matter."

Varric chimes in: "You might want to leave out the part about us willingly opening the prison."

She doesn't reply to that, and remains mostly quiet during the trip out of the Vimmark Wasteland. When they set camp on their way back to Kirkwall, she volunteers to stay on the watch, saying that she's feeling insomnia tonight.

It isn't long before the others fall asleep and she's left alone, sitting by the small fire, passively poking at the dried shrubbery and logs to keep the flames burning. Its warmth is not enough to dispel the chill of nightfall, and she pauses her activity once in a while to draw her travelling cloak closer to herself. She can conjure a magical flame and save herself all the trouble, but she doesn't. She'd rather not attract any attention to herself. Not that it really matters. I am already here.

When I move closer to her, a subtle frown appears on her forehead. She stops poking at the fire, and slowly lifts her head to look in my direction. Her breath turns into fine mist every time she exhales, and when she opens her mouth to ask quietly, almost in a whisper, "Who's there?"

How tempted I am to reveal myself.

But I am nothing if not patient, and I stay in the shadows, watching her as she stands up, drawing out her staff. She lingers for a few seconds, her keen eyes searching the area, before walking to her brother to wake him up. He's not too happy about her interruption, but ceases his grumbling when she says that they have to move, that it's no longer safe here.

The irony is not lost on me as the four of them pack their equipment and continue their journey toward Kirkwall, in a hurry to 'escape from danger'. Because I know the situation in that city is going to deteriorate very soon, very badly.

And it won't be long before they'll be forced to escape from there as well.

ooo

The Chantry is destroyed, its burning remains a ghastly reminder that honey-coated words of peace and equality alone cannot subdue oppression, discontent.

Insanity.

This is what Anders calls justice. And those in the Fade will probably agree with him, because it's been a _long_ time since they had the chance to freely ravage a city.

Out of every ten persons that I meet, nine are already possessed, the last in the process of becoming haunted. It's amusing in a way, that Meredith still only cares about purging the Circle while demons preside over all the districts. Mages are desperately trying to survive, resorting to blood magic, and blood magic is not an art that you can master in an instant. It is no surprise that abominations are prowling through every street. What a waste truly, for those hosts to turn into such detestable husks. For all their extended lives in the Fade, some spirits will simply never learn the value of cunning, forbearance. _Subtlety_.

That is why all of them are dying as Hawke carves a path through them to reach the Gallows, in hopes of containing the situation. She never uses blood magic, not like those fools from the Circle who futilely attempt to escape the Templars' wrath. And a part of me—a very small part of me—is pleased. I don't want any other demon to touch her delicate mind.

When they reach the Gallows courtyard, she attempts to establish a truce between Meredith and Orsino. The former doesn't relent, and the mages, along with Hawke and her companions, fall back into the tower to prepare for a stand. Fear is tangible in the air. The mages think they are going to perish, but I know they wouldn't—not all of them, not if they stand by Hawke's side.

They do not.

A demon's temptation is more alluring than her rallying words, and it is not long before they betray her, the first of them Orsino himself. All goes to the Void when he turns on Hawke—literally. And then she has to spend more than half an hour to take _him_ down.

When the Harvester is finally dead, she stands by its corpse, her expression impassive; because everyone in the Tower is dead, and here she is, at the centre of it, fighting for a cause already lost.

The Templars do not even have to put much effort in purging the building; Hawke and her companions have to do that to get out of the prison. Outside, Meredith is waiting for them, gloating. What comes next is inevitable, the result of a paranoia building up for years. Varric is shocked to discover that Meredith's sword is infused with the lyrium idol, as is Carver. Sebastian is speechless, but Hawke… Hawke has a look of pity on her face. I cannot fathom why she is feeling sympathy for the enemy. Maybe in her visage, she is seeing the faces of all those who died because of an object—one which probably would not have been discovered if she hadn't gone into the expedition.

The battle that ensues is chaos manifested. I lose sight of Hawke more than once in the vehemence. And when Meredith catches her off-guard and strikes her with the sword, for a moment I think that, yes, she's going to die here and perhaps I should intervene—I don't want a corpse. But then Hawke stands up, determined, and attacks the staggered Knight-Commander with a Paralysing Prison, finally bringing the insane woman to her knees.

She is ranting. She's still ranting to her beloved _Maker_, when the lyrium diffuses from her sword and burns into her skin, her flesh, bone and every vein.

That's when she screams.

She screams until her throat no longer moves, and she's dead. Petrified.

The silence that follows is tense, thick, like a veil that could be cut with a knife. The Templars do not dare to block Hawke's path as she heads for the docks, leaving behind the Gallows, the aghast Order members, the mutated corpses lying in the Tower, and the remains of Meredith behind, her footsteps heavy and eyes hard.

And as with the past seven years, I continue to pursue.


End file.
